Skipping Stones
by MujakiX
Summary: The Deathly Hallows are only the beginning... Harry Potter is 14 again in a world both alike and very different than his own. Hogwarts stands proud and whole, and Harry gets the shock of his young life at the Sorting Feast. Pairings TBD...
1. Across the Universe

**(Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I do hope you enjoy my new foray into the world of Fanfiction. To be honest, I haven't posted a thing in ages, and the well seems to have dried up for my other works. I do admit I was inspired by Harry Potter and the Wand or Uru by Alienyouthct, who in turn was inspired by SilverAegis writing a similar scenario. I like the idea of an already victorious Harry waking up in a completely new world. The idea is far from new, and I hope to put my own spin on the genre (?!?). Notes like this will be minimal, and the bulk of my commentary will be on my profile at some point after I get this rolling. I don't have a beta, so anyone who would like to volunteer is more than appreciated. Enjoy!)**

* * *

**Skipping Stones**

**A Harry Potter Fanfiction**

_**Chapter I: Across the Universe**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

"_Expelliarmus_!"

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

There was no fear anymore… I really don't think there ever was after the moment Tom Riddle and I locked eyes. With everything that's happened in the last three years, I never really took the time to stop and think about him as a person, as the human being Tom surely must have been before becoming Voldemort. Dumbledore spent his few, precious months alive trying to instill in me that Voldemort was not unstoppable, not the Force of Nature he made his followers believe he was. He was a human with an incredible lack of humanity, but human nonetheless. Looking into Tom's eyes this very second, I _know_ that he isn't the aloof Lord Voldemort he pretended to be… there is a rage his face can barely contain, disgust that he should lower himself to draw a wand on a mere seventeen-year-old, and… fear. I think that even without the advantage my first wand gave me, nor the supposed link I have to the Elder Wand, Tom is finally afraid of me.

I wish I could take even a bit of joy in that.

Magic is a bizarre and wonderful thing, Hermione once told me that there are people within the Ministry who devote themselves to the better understanding of Magic and how it links us, if Magic itself is sentient enough to 'choose' who can wield it. I don't really understand it, although Mr. Ollivander tried his best to impress it upon me as he recuperated at Shell Cottage. I wish I had Hermione's mind for these things, to be able to pick the brain of an obvious resource like Mr. Ollivander. Maybe I could understand the tenuous grip I have on the Deathly Hallows, why I can _feel_ the Elder Wand protest even as Tom utters the Killing Curse. My Cloak sings into my ears, as though victory is assured even as the sickly green light erupts from my enemy's very soul. The Stone hums from somewhere far off, ethereal arms around me as if to tell me 'It will all work out… trust us.'

Why am I thinking about this now?

Draco's wand cracks in my hands as the Killing Curse bathes me in its light. It's terrified, stuck between two forces that it wasn't made to withstand. The wand only serves me because it didn't feel its first owner was worthy of it anymore, but it knows that it was not made for the maelstrom we are standing in at the moment, breaking apart beneath the strain. I can feel three distinct powers involved in the struggle between myself and Tom; Voldemort's rage is almost tangible around him, and it tries to smother me with its weight to no effect as the Hallows cheer me to the victory. The Curse tries to force a way into me, to tear my soul from my body, but I just smile. I wonder if Luna would find the look on Tom's face as funny as I do right now. Lord Voldemort is a figment of Tom Riddle's imagination, a mythical version of himself he dreamed up when he was in school, and I can _see_ Tom Riddle for what he is – a sad, old man who destroyed himself trying to escape the inevitable.

I should ask Luna if this is what seeing the truth for the first time is like.

The stolen wand finally crumbles in my hand as the Killing Curse rebounds away, hungry for the meal it couldn't find with me. Tom's ruined face barely registers surprise before he is thrown to the ground, lifeless and withered. I stand there a moment, trying to breathe, as the fighting around me comes to an end. There are white spots in my vision as I survey the Great Hall. Weasleys are dotted around the crowd, although I don't see their faces very well. Bellatrix Lestrange lies in a heap on the floor, looking much smaller than she seemed in life. She reminds me a broken doll. I can see people cheering at my victory but the sound doesn't really register as it should, sounding more like a buzzing that is fading with every breath I try to take. Strange, that… I can't breathe and I'm not panicking. It's actually quite pleasant. I take a step forward and my knees wobble a bit. The Deathly Hallows are whispering something to me that I can't really understand, but I feel oddly at peace. I guess there was a price for facing Tom again. Another step and I drop to my knees, the splinters of Draco's wand falling out of my hand as my grip weakens. Seventeen years… maybe I didn't survive the Killing Curse the first time so much as I delayed it. Magic is a bizarre and wonderful thing after all, and with Tom's final death the unnatural hold the prophecy had on my life is snapping back like a rubber band. I can spot Hermione pushing her way through the crowd with Ron on her heels, her smile fading as she sees what's happening to me. Don't cry, Hermione. I've only lived as long as I have because of you. Ron was funny, although I wish we had gotten along better over the years. There is no such thing as perfect friends, I guess. Neville seems to be holding him back as the spots in my vision widen into a fine mist, and while I can't hear anything I can see my friends screaming my name. Indeed, the crowd has finally realized that something is wrong with me and is reacting accordingly. I should have been a nicer person. Hermione's crying now, and I wish I had asked her to the Yule Ball, even as friends. It would have been the right thing to do. I think that night would have turned out a lot better for all of us. Ron is beating the ground with his fist, having been tackled by Neville. I hope he doesn't hurt himself.

It's okay everyone. I should have thought about this before, but I guess it's too late now. Everything I did or didn't do, I can honestly say it was for my friends. It's been nice existing. The Hallows are calling me now, the Master of Death. I think I need to go with them.

Goodbye everyone… I love you all.

* * *

"Harry!"

It's a strange feeling to wake and have no idea what is going on… I should be used to it, I suppose. My head feels incredibly heavy as I try to sit up, and the inimitable sensation of clean sheets beneath me tells me I'm in bed, possibly in the Hospital Wing. That theory is immediately shot down when I realize that this room is dark and smells a little like the patchouli incense Lavender Brown liked to burn in the Common Room for 'atmosphere'. I doubt Madam Pomfrey would stand for anything of that sort tainting her ward. I fumble for my glasses, a slight panic building when they aren't behind my pillow. My vision without them isn't abysmal, but even at the Dursleys I liked having them nearby – I stood a better chance dodging Dudley's fists when they didn't register as fuzzy blobs racing towards my head. In my confusion, I had forgotten that someone else was in the room.

"Harry, are you alright?" I struggled a moment as strong arms sat me up on the bed and the missing glasses place on my head, "Glory and I tried to sneak in to surprise you and you just started screaming."

The voice was definitely masculine, and with my glasses I finally got a good look at the source. For just a second, my breath left me again. Standing at my bedside, his face flush with worry, was James Potter. Not the James Potter I remembered from the photos Hagrid gifted me with, but older and a touch grayer. He wasn't old by any stretch of the imagination, but he felt… worn, in a way that reminded me of Lupin. I couldn't help but reach out and touch his face. Too many bad dreams and horrific visions had trained me not to trust my eyes alone.

"Whoa, son! Are you feeling sick? St. Mungo's is only a floo away." The James look-alike put a hand to my forehead and immediately snapped it back, "You're burning up! That's it, let me find my slippers and we'll head over right now-"

"No, I'm fine." My voice was higher than I remembered it, my throat dry from disuse, "No hospital. I'll get a cup of water."

My distaste for the Hospital Wing was still fresh in my memory, and I really didn't need to add St. Mungo's to the tally. My heart was slowing down, the initial panic dying down a bit. I still needed to get out of this bed and figure out where in the world I was. Why was there someone who looked just like James Potter doting on me like…

… like a parent would.

"Are you sure? Audrey Collins owes me a favor, I'm sure she can get us a private room so we wouldn't have to wait."

"I'm sure." To be perfectly honest I really do feel sick, but I think the need to find out exactly what's going on takes precedence.

"Well, let me see if I have anything downstairs for your fever." Before I can protest, James is out the door. With my glasses and the lamp I finally get a good look at the room I'm in. Quidditch posters cover the walls, the most prominent being Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies, (with the centerpiece being a rather suggestive photograph of Gwenog Jones in a very brief Harpies jersey, showcasing long, tanned legs and holding a Cleansweep 5). A desk jumbled with crumpled paper sits in a corner next to a window, and the strangest thing seems to be that there are no books on it. A quick scan around the bed determines that there are no books in the room whatsoever. Also, a young girl in a nightgown is sitting at the foot of my bed.

Wait… my head must have been _really_ fuzzy for me not to have noticed her before. She's studying me with bright, green eyes and I wonder if other people get the same feeling of agitation when I look at them like that. The girl isn't old, no older than eight, but she's a lot taller than I remember being at that age. Her hair is as black as mine and neatly parted with long bangs. Without words, or even knowing who this strange girl is I feel something like kinship with her, and if the sinking feeling in my stomach is any indication I already know who she is.

"You're acting weird, Harry." She pointed to the ground, where the remains of a chocolate cake look to have taken a spill. Candles in the shape of the numbers 'one' and 'four' stare up at me, "You made me drop your cake."

Without thinking, my mouth moves before my brain does, "I didn't make you drop anything. You probably jumped like a little girl."

"At least I don't scream like a little girl." She says before sticking her tongue out at me. It's official, I like this girl. She smiles at me, and I take in the not unpleasent sight of both dimples and cheekbones as she crawls across my bed hugs me with a surprising strength, "You scared me, you big dummy!"

I don't know what to say… I can clearly remember Hermione express a similar sentiment, but this girl isn't nearly as familiar to me as Hermione is.

_Was, Harry_, a soft voice whispers. I glance up and it's gone like smoke in the wind.

I look at the girl in my arms a little more closely. If she is who I think she is, then James Potter's genes must be circling the goal posts in triumph. As much as people said that I was my father's Son, none would mistake this child's parentage, "Let's go find Ja… Dad."

She looks at me strangely for a second before thin lips spread into a grin, "Race you down!"

The girl squirms out of my grasp and damn near flies out of the room. I jump out of bed and give chase, careful to sidestep the smeared cake on the ground. Even as I run, I note that the walls are covered in pictures. I see the flip of a nightgown around the corner and the girl clears the staircase in three well-practiced leaps. I'm more cautious, given that this is a strange, new house to me, and hit every step on the way down. I can't help but laugh as she squeals when I catch her, tackling her into chair covered in fluffy pillows. She brings out the kid in me, I think. In the whole five minutes I've known the child I've had more fun than the past year I've been alive.

"Settle down, you two!" James leaps into the fray, a capped vial in his hand, "A fever-reducer is all I could find. Swallow this."

I look at the cloudy potion in his hands, and I can't pin down what I'm feeling. It could be poison, or something to knock me out. All this could be an elaborate trap that I am stupidly falling for. Drinking the potion would mean I have to trust this man who looks like James Potter, who acts like a devoted father. I would have to accept my new situation.

_This is your life._

Is this a reward, I wonder? I can clearly remember Ron, Hermione, Voldemort, and the fact my parents are dead.

_New life._

I remember dying.

"Harry?" I look up to see James, his brows furrowed in worry. I see the girl, my _sister_ looking at me expectantly. I take the vial and uncap it.

I do my best to grin, "Bottom's up."


	2. Ask Me Why

_**Chapter II: Ask Me Why**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

I'm Fourteen.

That's not quite right… I am fourteen years old. Again.

James cleaned the small mess still on the floor of what is apparently _my_ room and set to making another one. He and my sister Glory had been sneaking into my bedroom to surprise me with a cake when… I still can't explain it.

I'm Fourteen.

Again.

The two of them are in the kitchen right now, the child stubbornly refusing to go to bed until cake is had. I find it amusing that my birthday cake is being used to placate a grumpy eight year old. James seems to be a good dad, the delight he takes indulging my sister clear as day on his face.

_My_ sister. I'm not sure if I can ever see James as my father, but Glory is mine. I never contemplated life with siblings… of course, I was mourning life without my parents at the time. When I was eleven, Hagrid gave me photographs of Lily and James in a small album. For a long time I cherished that beyond all my other possessions because this was definitive proof that, yes, my parents were real people. That they existed beyond the nebulous tales adults would tell me about their bravery. I was so preoccupied with the notion of my parents that I never stopped to think what life could have been like had they lived. If they might have continued to have children. Peeking into the kitchen at a girl with flour on her nose I have an answer…

I want to be a big brother. Here in this place, I _am_ her big brother.

There are pictures all over the sitting room. Pictures with my parents, with me as a baby. The centerpiece over the fireplace is a picture with the whole family. Lily and James with their arms around each other, kissing happily as a much younger version of myself walks around them hand in hand with a three year old Glory. Strangely, this seems to be the most recent photo in this room. I walk into the hallway, careful to avoid the kitchen where I can hear James reading baking instructions out loud. Feeling a little bit like a Niffler digging for something shiny, I try to take in every detail I can from this house. This isn't the little cottage in Godric's Hollow where my parents staged their last stand. It's larger, about the size of the Dursley house on Privet Drive, but without the nearly sterile neatness Petunia kept. With it's electric lights and a set of automotive magazines in a small pile at the foot of a bookcase, the home seems stubbornly muggle. If the photographs on the walls kept still, you wouldn't be able to tell.

I find a restroom at the end of the hall and think it a good idea to wash up. I switch on the light and snicker at a bathroom rug printed in Gryffindor colors. The towels are a bold red while the shower curtain reminds me of the scarf Hermione wore during our winter Quidditch games. Thankful that the mirror doesn't seem to be enchanted to talk, I splash water on my face and consider my ordeal.

I am fourteen years old.

I am in an unfamiliar house where I apparently live.

I have a family.

Grabbing one of the garish towels to dry my face, I finally get a good look at myself in the mirror. It's still me, albeit younger, although my appearance surprises me. I've always been skinny, more so during my years at the Dursleys and over the summer. In fact, one of Hermione's chief complaints about me was that I didn't eat enough. It wasn't my fault, though. Vernon and Petunia fed me just enough to keep me alive when I was younger, and after I started Hogwarts my meals improved enough to keep any inquisitive professors off of their backs. They still forgot the occasional lunch, though, more out of habit than any real cruelty. Now, however, I can hardly see my ribs. I'm thicker in the shoulders and chest than I when I was _seventeen._ There's muscle there, though not at the level of someone like Viktor Krum. I look _healthy. _

I am a little disappointed at my height, though. Judging from my memories, I look to be only an inch or two taller than I was the first time around. Coupled with my eyes, my rounder face and cheekbones less defined than my sister's, I am more Lily's son than I ever knew. Running my fingers through my longer hair, I see something that stops my inspection dead in it's tracks.

My scar is gone.

I stumble back towards the kitchen in a sort of shock, leading James to try and send me to bed. Glory jumps to my defense, though I imagine the promise of cake is motivating her just as much as the chance to help her brother. I manage a weak smile at her pout when James explains that there will be cake in the morning when we have my birthday party.

"There won't be cake at all if Harry's too sick to be at his own party." James grins as he watches Glory struggle to find a fault in his logic. Even I can read her like a book. She finally gives a small groan and stomps upstairs. I follow close behind, not really wanting to talk to him if I can avoid it. It doesn't take a Legilimens to see the confusion in James Potter's face. Besides, I have bigger problems.

In 'my' room, I start picking up the mess on the floor. I don't even bother trying to scrub the icing out of the carpet when I know James will do it in the morning. Every scrap of paper is studied for hints, any clue that might tell me what this world might be like. What kind of person I used to be. My frenzied cleaning becomes frustration as I tear through the room, through the closets, under the mattress for _something!_ I was never the journal-keeping sort, so I doubt the Harry Potter of this world would be suddenly introspective. There was just… nothing. Was I so shallow a person here, so vapid that I kept nothing that had sentimental value? I reached beneath the bed, the only place I hadn't looked, and my fingers hit something solid. Mildly gratified my search was not in vain, I pulled a wooden trunk out from beneath my bed. There was a thick layer of dust along the top, and lacking anything practical to clean it with, I brushed what I could off in great, fluffy clumps.

Engraved on the lid in broad, fat letter was the name 'Lily Evans'.

I really don't think I can take this anymore. Morbid curiosity my only drive at this point, I open the trunk and gaze at my discovery. The trunk was deeper than it appeared on the outside, housing letters and photographs in a pocket inside the lid. Pulling them out one by one, I start to read, desperate to learn what I could.

Lily Potter was a Potions Mistress and Hogwarts Professor, the first muggleborn ever to hold that position. She replaced Professor Slughorn a couple of years after graduating due to my birth and the need to gain experience in her field. Slughorn happily filled in for her six years later when Glory was born. Judging by the scattered letters of appreciation, she was as well-loved as a Hogwarts Professor could get.

Lily Potter had six envelopes addressed to Petunia Dursley… and another three addressed to Petunia Evans, all invitations to Christmas Dinner with the Potters. All invitations were returned still sealed. It seems odd to think that I was the determining factor that ossified the marriage of Petunia and Vernon.

Lily Potter was dead.

The letter from Dumbledore was nebulous and procedural, giving her cause of death as an accidental overdose from a project in her lab. A final letter tucked away in the far corner of the pocket was an official certificate of death from the Ministry, signed by Amelia Bones. Setting the letter aside, I tried my best to calm the dull ache in my chest. Why am I hurting so much? I should have known when I first woke up, should have put the pieces together sooner. Where was my mother when James and Glory were sneaking into my room for a birthday surprise? Why didn't she help in the kitchen? I had the answers now. It is a strange feeling to bear the grief of someone I never met.

I feel like I'm wearing a stranger. This Harry Potter already grieved for his mother a long time ago, and I am near tears for a woman I've never met. What's wrong with me?

"Hey, son."

James Potter is standing in my doorway, a weary look on his face. I would normally feel violated to have someone who wasn't Hermione or Ron see me like this, but I'm too tired to care right now. He walks a little further in and I know he can see what I've been looking at.

"Hey." It's really all I can muster at this point, and James takes it as genuine communication. He sits at the foot of the bed, sadness in his eyes.

"Feeling nostalgic tonight?" He slumps a little as he talks, as if the words are taking the air out of him, "I can't really blame you, Harry. I forgot that this stuff was even in here."

"I miss her." It's not a lie, no matter how much my mind tries to tell me it is. How can I miss someone I've never met?

"I do too. I think I scrutinized every inch of that box before I finally got the nerve to put it all away. I didn't think she would want me to mope so much."

He grins a little bit before sitting up, "Put it away for now, Harry. Today's supposed to be a good day. She'd like that."

James musses my hair a little before stepping out of the room. He's right… I can't act as though Lily just passed away. I tuck the letters into their pocket before returning the trunk to it's hiding place. Crawling into bed, I try to slow my heart down enough to take it all in. I really wish I had Hermione's head for this. The information just feels heavy in my mind, like it's weighing me down.

I close my eyes wishing for sleep to take me. She obliges without a word.

* * *

I can't fault James Potter enough for caring for his children. After last night, I can easily see how he might be a little overprotective. Still, waking me just before noon to check on my fever? I try my hardest to be a good sport about it, but I didn't like it when Madam Pomfrey did it either.

I'm having a birthday party today. In an hour to be precise. More importantly, it's a chance to meet the important people in Harry Potter's life, in _my_ new life. I am curious, though… do I have the same friends? I'm still in Gryffindor, judging from the unfolded scarves on the floor of the closet, but what could have changed? A few hours of sleep did help after last night… I can think a little more clearly now. It will be hard, though, to see people who I have personally seen die. James told me to 'act surprised' when Sirius gives me my gift. I could only nod dumbly at his words while I tried to comprehend that my godfather was still alive. Even I can spot the irony there. This world is different, though. Not just in my relationships with people, but something large that I just can't put a finger on yet. As much as I love Glory, I have a hard time believing Lily and James would bring another child into a world where people like Tom Riddle exist. Especially when they were actively taking part in a war.

No, something else is going on… and it has to do with my scar.

I showered a little while ago and took the time afterward to check myself again… still gone. As embarrassing as it was, I decided to check the rest of my body in the off-chance that it migrated. No scar. Curious if I was still a Parselmouth, I nearly conjured a snake before thinking twice – given my prior experiences, I didn't need another letter from that Hopkirk bint. I briefly entertain the notion that perhaps Neville has it… but I ran into James downstairs, writing a letter to Frank and Alice Longbottom. Something is wrong with this world… I just can't see what it is.

I finish changing and start to head downstairs, nearly forgetting my wand in the process. My wand… there's another change. I half-expected to find my old Holly wand waiting for me when I got here. No such luck. This one is Hawthorn and Dragon Heartstring, a good two inches shorter than my old one. After using Draco's wand for those few months, you would think that I would be used to strange wands. This one was different, feeling positively alien in my hands. Still, I have to keep up appearances, so I stick it into my pocket and walk downstairs.

Glory is waiting for me, dressed plainly in a red t-shirt and shorts that clearly demonstrated just how much more athletic she is than I was at her age. If she's any good on a broom, I can easily see the two of us tearing through a line of Chasers. Thinking about Quidditch, I hope I'm on the house team at school… call me vain, but I kind of want to see what my newly athletic frame can do. She squeals upon seeing me and I am nearly tackled onto a lounger. I easily scoop her up with one arm and sit her next to me, waiting for James to come downstairs.

He doesn't disappoint, stalking down the stairs a minute or two after me. He rolls his eyes at the sight of us tangled on the couch and pulls a small mirror out of his pocket. He taps it with his wand and a hazy reflection not his own comes into view.

"Are you ready to go, Padfoot?"

"Just a second James! I'm trying to gather presents for the munchkin."

"Did you just now get him something?" James gives me a knowing wink and I snicker a little at his implication. He'll think I am a tremendous actor when this is all said and done.

"Oh, hush you. I'm coming through."

The fireplace flickers a second before roaring to life. A flash of green later and Sirius Black is standing before me.

He isn't my Sirius Black, that much I can tell immediately. His hair is still long and beard neatly trimmed, but he doesn't have that odd, haunted look in his eyes my Sirius had even in his best of days. I suppose there was no Azkaban for this sharp-dressed man before me. But familiarity takes me and I rush to hug him as tightly as I can. Glory follows suit, although I don't think she knows what it means to me.

"Whoa, Harry! A little excitable there, aren't you?"

For a moment, just _one_ moment I hold onto Sirius as tightly as I can. I want to beg forgiveness from him, to weep and tell him just how much I've missed him. I don't cry, but I know this is the last time I can ever feel this way about the man. After a second, I release him, and I put every feeling I've ever had about Sirius Black in a box and put it away. I don't know this man. I don't think I'll ever know him again.

"Sorry about that." I mumble, trying to clear my throat before James gets suspicious.

Too late. "Harry, are you feeling alright? We don't have to do this if you don't feel up to it."

"Hey, you promised me cake at Harry's party! We're going!" Glory pouted and folded her arms across her chest, as resolute an eight year old can be.

I smile and slipped an arm around her, "You heard the girl."

Sirius about dies laughing at our display, "Since when did you two start acting so chummy?"

Oops. I look down at the beaming child beside me as she answers, "When he started acting weird last night."

"Oh hush. I thought you wanted cake." She sticks her tongue out at my reply.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road. The Weasleys are probably waiting for us."

Weasleys… am I still friends with Ron? James walks over and looks me in the eye, "Harry, the Weasleys are doing this as a favor to me. Please, _please_ be polite to them."

Perhaps not… what kind of person am I? I begin to dread what the answer might be. "I will."

"Good. Let's be off then, shall we?"

James goes first, "The Burrow!"

I follow in a puff of soot, and tumble through right into a low table. James is already there to help me up and repair the damage. Floo Travel isn't any more fun here than it was before. The fireplace flares, and Glory dives into my shins, the two of us tangled on the floor for a second time today. Sirius calmly steps through, breaking into another fit of giggles when he sees the two of us.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Padfoot." I mutter as I help Glory to her feet. No sooner than I dust myself off do I here an incredibly familiar voice.

"Oh, this must be them now. Arthur! Go Fetch Ronald, his guests are here!"

So I am friends with Ron. Mrs. Weasley walks over and smothers me in a hug, "Oh, this must be Harry. Such a dashing fellow isn't he? Looks so much like his mother."

I blush a bit at the thought. I think that is the first time someone has ever compared me to Lily without mentioning James first. She lets me go and proceeds to hug Glory, although she struggles a bit in Mrs. Weasley's grasp. Good luck with that, sis. You're on your own there. I walk around a bit in the Weasley's sitting room, marveling at the familiar sights and sounds. How something can be so different yet so alike. I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I nearly miss what Mrs. Weasley is saying.

"… and the kitchen is already set up. She said she was taking the Knight Bus over here, something about how she didn't want to get soot all over her clothes."

Hermione's coming? Is it possible that I made the same friends here that I did before? Something odd strikes me though… since when has Hermione ever cared about cleaning off a little soot from the Floo?

I hear rumbling from down the stairs, and I look up to see Arthur Weasley. Like his wife, there was little difference in his appearance, although he regarded me with a cool expression. I hadn't met the man in this world, judging by Mrs. Weasley's reaction to me, so why did he look so cold?

"Oh Arthur, this is Harry. Doesn't he look like Lily to you?"

The man regarded me for a second, as if he was trying to make up his mind. Finally, he shook his head and smiled at me, though his eyes kept that odd look to them, "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter."

I had always wondered where Percy managed to get his stiff personality from, given how laid back most of the family was. Apparently Arthur's business demeanor rubbed off on him, "Likewise, sir."

There was another stirring down the stairwell, and Ron Weasley walked into the sitting room, yawning and scratching his head. He looked just like _my_ best friend, though it seemed as though he hadn't really cleaned up at all for the party. His hair was mussed and his shirt rumpled, giving the impression of someone who just rolled out of bed and threw something on. Mrs. Weasley clearly didn't approve and stalked over, "Ronald Weasley, you will march back up to your room and change clothes this instant!"

"Aw, mum! It's just Harry and-"

"That's right! You need to wash up too if a young lady is coming over. I'll drill proper manners into you yet!"

Ron gave an ugly grimace before stomping back upstairs. I think it strange he fought at all, considering Hermione was coming over and he usually tried his hardest to impress her. Then again, we are fourteen. I don't remember when it was he started to notice girls.

"Harry, will you be a dear and wait outside for your friend?"

I nod at Mrs. Weasley and walk out the door. I can hear the sudden frenzy of activity behind me and I smile a bit. The gardens look the same, and I'm sure that the Orchard out back is still standing. It's quite peaceful out here, the breeze kicking up a little to offer relief for such a hot day. I still can't believe that I'm having a birthday party, with my family no less. Well, it's hard not to think of them as my family - James, Glory, Sirius, and now the Weasleys. I barely know these people, but I'm trying desperately to fit in. I can accept that, at best, this is my new life. I haven't really thought about what the worst could be.

The worst could be that I'm stuck here.

And that's the heart of it, I think. I _do not_ want to get attached. If I do, and this is a nearly-perfect world, I don't want to be yanked out of it. It's a beautiful dream to have a family… I want it so badly I can taste it. I actually have it here, though not in the way I wanted. In a perfect world, my mother wouldn't be dead.

It isn't a perfect world. It isn't a reward for everything I've done in my life thus far. When I died, something happened…

I hear the deafening _crack_ of the Knight Bus down the road. I sit up from my reverie and smile at the thought of my other friend. Ron didn't seem to have changed much, I wonder if Hermione is any different? The Bus rolls to a stop near Mr. Weasley's garage, and I step outside the gate to welcome my friend.

A girl I don't immediately recognize steps off the Bus. Her hair is long, dark, and curly, with wide eyes and a strong chin. She's wearing a powder blue tank top with the thinnest straps I've ever seen on an article of clothing, and a pair of shorts I think would give Mrs. Weasley a coronary. I can't but think she looks familiar when she smiles, and she walks right up to me, inches away from my face. So close I can see the freckles lightly sprinkled on her cheeks and nose. The girl leans in, and for a second I think she is going to kiss me before she turns her head and hugs me instead. No… hug isn't the right word. This isn't a rib-crushing hug I would get from Hermione or Glory, nor is this the smothering motherly hug I get from Mrs. Weasley. This is intimate. I don't even think Ginny ever held me like this.

"Hullo, Harry." She lets me go and reveals a toothy smile, "Happy birthday."

Realization hits me like a shot and suddenly I know that _everything_ is going to be different than it used to be. I know this girl.

"Hi, Romilda."

* * *

I blow the candles out on my rather magnificent cake, watching the smoke writhe it's way out of existence. James, Sirius, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sit on the far side of the table while I sit between Glory and Romilda with Ron on the far side. It's a scene so surreal I could have never imagined it myself. Glory cheers and I feel a hand squeeze my thigh as James starts to cut the cake. I jerk backwards a moment and look at Romilda, who has a cheeky grin on her face.

Romilda Vane is my best friend. From what I can tell we aren't dating, although she is rather aggressive in her physical contact with me. James likes her well enough, and I do appreciate the way she jokes with Glory. I am very quickly becoming dependant on my little sister as a barometer for my social interactions. Ron doesn't really impress her, which bothers me, but other things are on my mind. For a birthday party that has clearly been planned, I don't really have a wide social circle to celebrate it with. Aside from the parents Weasley, who helped throw the party, and wallflower-extraordinaire Ginny, who is skulking around the sitting room working up the nerve to come to the dinner table, I only have Ron and Romilda as real friends here. Granted, a lot of the time at Hogwarts it was mainly Hermione, Ron, and myself, but I could think of a number of people that would have enjoyed coming. Am I even friends with Neville or Luna here? I'm finding that as the day goes on, there seem to be more questions than answers.

After cake is had and my sister on the brink of a sugar rush, James and Sirius produce a large box covered in gold wrapping paper, and I swear James winks at me as Sirius tells me that he wasn't sure what to get me, so he guessed. I doubt I'll need to 'act' surprised. Ron eyes the gift with a greedy look in his eyes I don't like, but I shrug it off and tear the paper off. I grin as I see a box full of Zonko's best products, including vanishing paper, a massive supply of Filibuster Fireworks, and a handful of dungbombs. I'm earnestly thanking Sirius for the gift when I see a hand reach in to rummage through the box. With reflexes I hadn't used since my last game of Quidditch, my hand darts out and grabs the offender by the wrist.

"Oi, let me go!" Ron struggles in my grip, "I just want to check out your loot."

I release him, a little peeved that he didn't ask me first. Both James and Sirius are looking at me strangely now, no doubt because I'm acting 'out-of-character' again. Romilda takes this as her cue to pull a tiny box out of her pocket. She draws her wand and enlarges the package to the size of a shoebox, and before I can question how she is managing to get away with performing magic she slides the gift over to me.

"Go ahead, it won't bite."

I gently pry the lid off and I am shocked at it's contents. There is a beautifully framed photograph of a younger Romilda trying to teach a five year old Glory how to play Exploding Snap on my bed, stopping every so often to pull an equally younger me into a reluctant hug. Ron appears to be entranced by my Gwenog Jones poster. I pull the photo out and see that there is an engraving on the bottom. It reads 'Harry Potter, 2nd year, Romilda Vane, 1st year. Christmas.' On the back there is a handwritten message:

_To my first, best friend._

_Yours Forever, Romilda._

This gift… the only thing like it I have ever received was my precious photo album from Hagrid. It's thoughtful, intimate, and completely at odds with the creepy stalker I knew Romilda to be in my old world. I am shaken from my thoughts by an undignified snort from Ron. It doesn't look as though he's terribly impressed by this gift. Nonetheless, he reaches for this one as well. Before I can stop him, Romilda beats me to the punch.

"He's not done yet, Ronald." She says with a glare that would cow Tom given half a chance. Ron grumbles as he decides to rifle through the other box, shooting me a dirty look I probably would have missed had I not been paying attention. What was wrong with him? Romilda pulls the box back to her, and she reaches in and draws out a small, silver bracelet with a small cross hanging from the end of it. There is a small ruby embedded on one arm while a green peridot decorates the other. She unclasps it and reaches for my wrist, gently tracing the outline of my hand after she fastens it into place.

"I know Wizards don't really care for this sort of thing, but a little extra protection never hurt anybody." Romilda lets my hand free so I can inspect it. The jewelry isn't garish at all, understated even. You wouldn't be able to tell there were gems there unless you really looked. The Cross was interesting, though. I never attended Services with the Dursleys, not for lack of faith at the time, but more for the fact they didn't want to congregation to know there was a second child living under their roof. Once I received my Hogwarts letter, it became a moot point anyway. Still, I appreciate the sentiment involved. I lean over and hug Romilda – I feel her tense for a second before relaxing into my arms.

"Thank you." She looks at me curiously before smiling again.

Ron gives me a box of Chocolate Frogs, which I missed during our long trek in the woods, but doesn't quite compare to Romilda's gift. It isn't his fault really, he didn't think his gifts through in the old world either.

"Go ahead and shrink your gifts, Harry, so we can head home." James is helping with the clean up, and I can't really ask him the question that's been bugging me for a while now… Romilda clearly didn't get a letter from the Improper Use of Magic office, and James is asking to perform magic. Unless this is a fairly elaborate prank, I suppose I can chalk it up to a difference in the worlds. I pull the hawthorn wand out from my pocket and prepare to shrink the box with the photo in it. It's so bizarre, handling this wand. I feel like it's actively trying to resist me using it. I tap the box twice and mutter the incantation. No response. I try it again, and I feel something tug at me on the inside.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Romilda has a puzzled look on her face, and I feel my frustration growing.

"My wand is fighting me. I can't shrink this bloody box!" I do it one more time, and this time the alien wand reacts… it explodes in my hand, throwing me clear across the room into the grandfather clock.

My vision is fuzzy and growing dimmer by the second… oh hell, not this again. The last thing I see is Glory and Romilda racing towards me before I slide into the darkness.

_Not dead yet, Harry Potter._

_

* * *

_

"… and that little Weasley snot was trying to take off with half of those fireworks! Do you know how much I paid for those?"

"Calm down, Sirius. That's not helping us right now."

It's always funny how I always manage to wake to people talking, usually about me. I can't really open my eyes yet, so I settle for listening in and figuring out what the hell just happened to me.

"He's been off since last night. Glory and I tried to surprise him for his birthday, and he just sat up screaming his lungs out. When he came to, he acted like…"

"Like what, James?"

"… like he didn't know us. And he was burning up. I thought about bringing him here last night, but he told me he was fine, and-"

"Hush, James. You did the best you could given the circumstances. He probably did feel fine at the time. When will the Healer be in?"

Healer? Damn, I'm at St. Mungo's. It's time to make a bit of noise. I try to protest, but all that comes out is a dry groan. It's enough to startle Sirius and James into action. I put my glasses on as Sirius hands me a glass of water. I feel absolutely parched for some reason, and the cool drink is a welcome relief. My right hand is wrapped in smelly bandages, giving me the impression someone dunked it into a bucket of Pine Oil. I can hardly feel where a magical explosion undoubtedly burned the flesh off of my palms. I remember reading about the dangers of trying to wield an incompatible wand in Charms class, the very class where I learned the stupid shrinking charm! In a way, I'm glad I wasn't in a fight when this happened. I don't think they could have found all the pieces to put my hand back together.

"What Healer?" My voice still feels quite rough, but I can deal with it.

"Audrey Collins. She'll come in and make sure _everything_ is fine." James said in a tone that indicated there would be no protests, "Romilda offered to take Glory with her while she went home to get a change of clothes. They should be back before Audrey gets here."

So I'll have an audience when this unfamiliar Healer pokes and prods me… and scans me, finding something very wrong with this Harry Potter.

Now what?


	3. Act Naturally

_**(Author's note: For those of you who have stuck beside me, and those new authors who I both admire and appreciate bouncing ideas off of, this is for you. Forgive the extreme tardiness of this chapter. It is unbeta'd at the moment, but that will be rectified shortly. Chapter four is already halfway done, and to everyone who discovers this tale, I give you my thanks for reading it...)**_

* * *

_**Chapter III: Act Naturally**_

* * *

"Look directly into this light, Mr. Potter."

My eyesight goes a bit funny as I track the sharp, blue light dancing in front of my eyes. There is an odd hum in my body that I assume to be some sort of medical scan in progress – the thought of it makes my stomach twist. I can feel the stirrings of panic in the back of my mind , mostly at the fact I had no clue what would happen to me if I were discovered. Would I end up in Azkaban? Or would I be dragged into the Department of Mysteries to be studied in one of those awful rooms? _Maybe I would get my own room_, the thought makes my lips twitch into a mirthless smile.

Abruptly, the light disappeared, leaving me with glittery spots in my vision that I try and rub away, "Well, aside from your hand I can say that you are as healthy as can be."

I blinked at that – there wasn't anything wrong with me? At least nothing they could find. It made sense, in a way. I know I didn't come here whole, looking in a mirror told me that much. I was in a shell, a Harry Potter from another world gracelessly shoved into someone else who was me... but not really. I am Harry Potter.

But I'm not.

I'm a stranger in a familiar face. In a skin that feels like me but isn't shaped like me. If I were to be perfectly honest with myself, this body is in much better condition then the battered one I left behind. It isn't just a body, though. I am fairly certain I can't just jump from person to person the way Tom could. I would feel it, I'm certain, if my mind, my _magic_ was as corrupted as Tom's was.

I'm torn away from my thoughts by the blonde healer snapping her fingers in front of my face, "Harry! I know boys your age have the attention span of a niffler, but please listen to what I'm saying. You'll need to treat your wound yourself tonight if you want to be good by tomorrow."

Audrey Collins is concise and no-nonsense in her explanation, reminding me a bit of McGonagall in her demeanor. She looks nothing like the older woman, though, being somewhat shorter and at least half her age. James is standing beside her with a muggle notepad in hand, jotting down the instructions that I can't write myself. My memory is good, but I don't mind the help. Glancing at the two of them, I would guess that they went to school together – maybe even the same class if James didn't look so worn. Sirius is looking at the two of them with an achingly familiar grim on his face. Glory is asleep, sprawled in Romilda's lap next to the bed while the older girl teases her hair. Romilda is one big question mark to me... what happened to Hermione? Ron is still my friend, but there was something I was missing. I feel like this world exists on a lynchpin... one thing that somehow made the world _different_.

Romilda.

My scar.

My _family._

What am I missing?

The bandages are changed once more before Healer Collins declares me fit to leave. James, ever the attentive father, ushers us into a room with a private Floo while he wraps things up. Sirius steps through holding a sleepy-eyed Glory in his arms, and for a second the room is awash with green light as they make the trip home. Romilda steps up to me and gives me a hug, my face smothered in her dark curls for a second before she whispers into my ear.

"I think dinner will be better, Harry. I'll see you soon."

With a grin she departs, and I am alone. I step towards the fireplace when I hear voices in the private room behind me... a thought crosses my mind and I try to squash it down. I really shouldn't eavesdrop, I know it. But being in this world without any meaningful information, without any idea how I fit into the scheme of things, it's too much to pass up. I step towards the door as quietly as I can, the light of the fireplace fortunately casting my shadow on the opposite side of the room. It helps that the door is cracked already – the only thing I have to do is listen.

"-It's just odd, that all."

"James..."

There isn't any talking for a few seconds, and I hear the _tap-tap-tap_ of Healer Collins' heels as she paces.

"The way he acted... Harry hasn't hugged Sirius since he was ten. And playing with Glory... he was playing with her like a child!"

"He is a child, they both are."

"That's not the point! He's acting like a completely different person."

"Oh James, you said yourself that he was looking through his mother's old things. He still misses her. Does it surprise you that he might be trying to reconnect with his godfather, his _family_?"

James sighed, and I heard a sound like someone settling into a chair, "It's little things, I guess. He was so timid before the summer. Every other letter I get from McGonagall is about how disinterested he is in his classes, or how he has trouble making friends-"

"Except Ron Weasley."

"Except," James spat, "Ronald Weasley."

There was such venom in his voice that I was taken aback – what was wrong with Ron?

"And the Vane girl." Healer Collins giggled, amused at her own joke, "I think she has designs on your boy."

I could almost hear James' anger deflate at that, "Honestly, Romilda Vane is the only reason I haven't pulled Harry out of Hogwarts and schooled him myself."

"She seems like a good influence."

"She is. He's a little terrified of her, I think, but she can get him out of his shell sometimes. For that, I'm infinitely thankful."

"The girl is intent on being part of your household."

"That she is," James laughed, "In a couple of years, if she's still around, I'll think about asking Harry what _he_ really intends."

"So do you feel better now?" Healer Collins' voice softened a bit, "You can't keep worrying yourself about every little thing, James, you'll give yourself gray hairs. Well, more of them at least."

"Hey now!"

"It's true! Your father had black hair until the day he died, and your granddad had black hair till he was ninety!"

James grumbled a bit, "It's hard sometimes, you know? Lily... it hit all of us."

Healer Collins' voice seemed to sober a bit, "She wouldn't want you to mourn her forever, love."

I could hear James shuffle to his feet, and I backed away from the door. As I made my way to the fireplace, I heard something so soft I almost thought it was my imagination.

"I know, but I can't let go. Not yet."

* * *

With my birthday lunch having been interrupted, Sirius declared that we would be having a private dinner instead. I'm sure if Glory had been awake to hear it, she would have asked if there would be cake involved. Romilda had evidently gone home to change because when I emerged from my room I found her sitting cross-legged on one of the cushy seats in the den in a flowery sundress, reading a copy of Witch Weekly. She must have heard me walk in because she motioned for me to sit down without taking her eyes off the page.

"Sirius said that the food's ready, we're just waiting on everyone to get here."

I glanced over at her magazine, chuckling to myself at the article detailing the proper use of glamour charms – a photo of tiny witch twirling her wand dramatically around her head as an example. Looking closely at Romilda, I honestly didn't think she needed the assistance. To each their own, I suppose.

"Is Glory still sleeping?"

"I'm sure she was, but your dad went upstairs to fetch her and get her presentable for dinner." Romilda said as she delicately placed her magazine on the floor, "How are you feeling?"

I had removed the bandages a bit earlier so I could actually feed myself – there was a lingering thought that either James or Romilda would have spoon-fed me if I was unable to do so and I'm not sure which of them would be the strangest. I raised my hand to her, flexing the new, baby-pink skin, "It could be worse. It's a little sore and I'll have to slather some kind of foul-scented cream on it before bed, but at least it works."

She smiled at that, and she traced my palm with her fingers, the newly formed nerves tingling a little at the sensation, "Good."

Romilda cradled my hand in her lap for a few minutes, fascinated at the new flesh, and I wondered how the Other Harry would have reacted to her. I didn't want to immediately pull my hand away from her like my first instinct told me to, but given James' words earlier, would He have allowed her to do this? Not to mention the fact that Romilda was apparently accustomed to a certain degree of intimacy with me...

I could feel a headache coming on. Why couldn't I simply be myself?

Of course, there is an easy answer to that. I don't know who I am.

Not really.

I hear three well-placed thuds coming down the stairs, and like clockwork Glory bounds into the den and neatly catapults into my lap, laughing the whole way. I hear the sound of rapid footsteps and James follows her, a stern look on his face.

"What do I keep telling you? You know how dangerous that is!"

"Oh come off it, Prongs. I was right here." Sirius laughed as he walked in, "Besides, the little lady here knows her limits."

Sirius gives Glory and exaggerated wink, and she bursts into giggles. James sighs, knowing defeat when he sees it, and sits on the chintz lounger right in front of us, "She still needs to be careful."

"And she will be, I assure you." Sirius falls in beside him, an arm around his best friend.

The doorbell rings, and Sirius leaps back to his feet, "And that would be the last of our missing number! Romi, would you be a dear and set the table for us?"

Romilda rolls her eyes even as she rises from her chair, "That's such a stupid name, I told you never to call me that."

"And until you become an Animagus I'll keep calling you that! It gives you incentive to study."

She stalked off, muttering about flea-ridden canines as Sirius sashays across the den to open the door. James couldn't help but crack a smile at his antics, and rose to greet our guest.

"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, Padfoot. I swear I'm going to strangle that bloody Umbridge woman before long."

My ears perked up at that voice... _that voice_.

A man walked into the den, and ice slid down my spine. He wasn't much taller than I was, and he had a head full of mousy-brown hair slicked down to a tail on the back of his head. His face wasn't handsome, with protruding eyes and a long nose, but a happy grin lit up his face as he embraced both James and Sirius. Though shorter than both of them, he was broad and barrel-chested with a bit more belly than a man his size should have. Glory, the little ball of energy that she is, leaped from my lap and dashed into his arms. The familiar man easily hoisted her into his arms and twirled her about, much to my sister's delight.

"Uncle Peter!" She squealed.

I swallowed hard, forcing my heart back down into my chest. Peter Pettigrew was in my house, and I was very, very lucky that I didn't have a wand.

For now.


	4. Nowhere Man

_**Chapter IV... Nowhere Man**_

* * *

"Harry!" The jovial man at the doorway called, my little sister slung across his shoulders, "Glad to see you in one piece! I knew Audrey would have had you right in no time."

The sound of drums pounded in my chest, echoing in my ears so loudly I wanted to hunch over and cover them... but I know I can't do that. I can't give a single hint, a whit that something is amiss. In my mind's eye I can see the shrunken, pitiable beast Peter Pettigrew had become, a man so enveloped by fear it affected his very appearance. A man who chose to live as an animal rather than grow a backbone and confess his crimes.

A man who stared at me helplessly as the silver hand Tom "gifted" him with choked the life out of him at the mere _thought_ of sparing my life.

Nothing like this man before me.

Nothing at all.

I forced a smile onto my face and stood up, "Can I take your coat?"

For just a moment, Peter looked at me as though I had grown a second head. Then he burst out a deep belly laugh, Glory screaming in delight as she bounced on his shoulders.

"Of course you can! Let me just rid myself of this gremlin I've acquired..." With a speed I had never seen from the man, he smoothly heaved my sister over his head to cradle her in his arms... just before dumping her face first onto the couch. She bolted back upright with a cheeky grin on her face before running headlong into the dining room. James was trying his damnedest not to giggle, and Sirius was failing miserably at it, almost bent over with laughter.

Peter strode over to me and shed his overcoat, revealing an almost deliberately Muggle button-up shirt and Tie, "It's ridiculously frigid in the Ministry these days, so the monkey-suit is a benefit I suppose."

As I walked over to the closet by the stairs, I tried to glance his right arm from the corner of my eye – not that it helped, given his choice of long sleeves. At least it was flesh and not the ominous glitter of silver. With a sigh, I completed my task and walked back into the den, only to be greeted by Sirius at the doorway.

"Why don't you go help Romi with the dining room? We'll be in there in a minute or two."

I tried not to feel too relieved at being separated from Pettigrew and nodded in reply. My nerves returned to me as I walked away, though I just couldn't shake that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

_This too shall pass._

_With us forever._

* * *

I guess it should be counted as a good thing that Dinner wasn't horribly awkward. Upon entering the dining room, Romilda seemed to immediately detect something was wrong with me, though I did my best to placate her. She didn't seem too convinced, but she let the matter drop. My biggest anxiety was almost immediately dissolved when Pettigrew sat down right in front of me and rolled up both his sleeves to dine. Aside from the fact his forearms were as thick around (and greatly resembled) tree trunks, there was no Dark Mark.

No Dark Mark.

And Pettigrew was funny! He worked as Undersecretary of the Department of Magical Creatures and Game, and he never failed to get a laugh out of Sirius and James. Even I had to chuckle at a story he told about Dolores Umbridge trying to chase down – and end up chased by - a rogue Unicorn to transport to a reserve, though I don't think they found it funny for the reasons I did. This sparked a discussion about cloven-footed creatures, which in turn led to Umbridge's deviant sexual fetish for cloven feet... which led to Glory being sent upstairs to bed, and me to prepare Romilda's room for the night. Somehow, the shock of Pettigrew's story and exceedingly detailed description numbed me to the fact Romilda Vane was staying the night.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that – I liked Romilda, for all of the one day I knew her at least. She certainly liked me, and she made very certain I knew it too. All evening she would glance over at me only for a second or two at a time, as if she were studying me. It didn't take a genius to figure out she was at least mildly concerned for my well being. Not to mention the fact her hand would often find itself clinging to my arm or resting on my leg. In a roundabout way, this kept me 'in-character' in James' eyes because I really did not know how to react to her, so I took to looking down and studying my food intently at his raised eyebrow. I did find it very sad that I was mentally eighteen years old and still had no idea what to do about a girl who might fancy me.

Which brings me to my current problem... there is a girl in my house who apparently has her own room. It's a guest room, judging by the distinctly unfeminine oak furniture that decorates it - yet there is a wardrobe full of girl's clothing too large for Glory to wear, and a sheet set in a distinctly familiar shade of green I've been tasked with dressing the bed in. I've dressed a bed too many times to count for it to be a real issue, but the fact that James trusts her so implicitly sticks in my mind. Romilda, at least _this_ Romilda, isn't obsessed with the Boy-Who-Lived. Without my scar, I doubt I'm even the Boy-Who-Lived to begin with. This Romilda isn't pushy or brash... but as I think about it, I didn't really give her a chance in my old world. Of course, insulting Neville and Luna to their faces and injecting chocolate cauldrons with love potions was entirely the wrong way to try and win my favor.

I've known her all of a day. The Other Harry has known her since the day she started Hogwarts and was likely spooked by teenage girls to begin with... am I really that different, even if my reasons for keeping a safe distance are?

I'm eighteen years old, and the sum of my experience with women is a failed, sopping relationship with a girl who thought I could replace her dead boyfriend and my best friend's little sister. And we were together for less than a month in both cases. I fall backwards onto the four-poster, my hands on my face – the sad truth is I am about as experienced as the average fourteen year old. Fate has a sick sense of humor.

At least I'm not dead.

"Hullo, Harry."

I look towards the door to find the girl in question with a towel on her head... and wearing my Quidditch jersey.

Oh.

Oh boy.

She gives me a toothy smile as I notice her outfit, "I hope you don't mind that I borrowed it. I don't usually keep nightclothes here and I wasn't going to Floo home and spend the rest of the night washing soot out of my hair."

Romilda is about my height but I'm considerably more filled out than she is, so the jersey came to a modest mid-thigh length on her. She walked over and plopped down on her belly next to me, "Besides, I think it looks better on me anyway."

I was inclined to agree. I don't really consider myself an great expert on beauty. I thought Cho Chang was beautiful, but I can easily say the same thing about Luna or Hermione. Romilda was different, though. She wasn't a delicate waif like Cho or Luna – both meals we shared together definitely proved that point – nor was she as sporty and compact as Ginny was. I thought Romilda was pretty when I first saw her on the train a lifetime ago, but her personality there skewed my perception. It didn't matter if she was the most beautiful girl in the world, that she thought my friends were beneath her was enough for me to close the door on her completely. But it's different here. James Potter, in all of the day I've known him, is incredibly over-protective of his children, to the point his friends comment on it.

Yet he trusts Romilda in his house with his kids. How did that happen? When?

"What are you thinking, Harry?"

I could tell her exactly what's on my mind... though it's anyone's guess what would happen. If I do it... what would happen? I would get taken away by St. Mungo's at the very least, given that there was no physical evidence of how I came to inhabit this body. I would terrify Romilda.

I would break Glory's heart.

I would shatter James Potter beyond repair.

I can't leave. Not with my family, _my _family in this state. I don't even know what happened to the Other Harry... did I simply erase him? Or did we switch places, leaving him to die in my stead? If that happened... was there even a point to it? I was being manipulated again, and I don't have any idea of who is doing it.

Or _what._

"Can I ask you a question?"

Romilda perked up at this, and she pulled herself up to my line of sight, "Anything."

"If you had a choice," I whispered, trying my best to articulate my thoughts, "Would you fix something that was broken, or leave it for someone else?"

She pondered this a moment, biting the tip of her bottom lip before answering "What would be the cost?"

"The cost?"

"Yes. If it didn't cost you anything you would do it anyway, choice or not."

"Oh." I consider this, doing my best to ignore the fact her arm was resting across my stomach. What would it mean to me if I stayed? What would it _cost_ me? It would cost me my other life altogether if I were to take the plunge and really become Harry Potter, James Potter's son instead of Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. I would lose the Ron and Hermione I know, my best friends, the only real family I've ever known.

That's even if I could find a way back without dying.

If I were to stay here... I have Glory and James Potter... I have Sirius. I have a family to put back together because I really think I have the strength to do that. I have a life without the weight of being The-Boy-Who-Lived. I could _live_ here... maybe.

_Something else, Harry Potter..._

There just might be a reason I'm here in the first place.

I feel Romilda shift upwards again, this time laying eye-to-eye next to me, "Harry?"

"The cost would be the time it might take to fix what's broken," I said, just letting my instinct guide me, "I could fix it. It might be hard, the hardest thing I've ever done. But all I would need is the time."

"Then why rush?" Romilda giggled, reaching a hand up to muss my hair, "Silly Harry... you can take your time and get it right."

She took the opportunity to snuggle up against me, and I immediately jerked up, deciding that this was enough closeness for one evening, "Goodnight, Romilda."

Her reply was muffled by her laughter, and I couldn't help but smile a bit as I walked out of the room.

* * *

It was ridiculously early in the morning, even for my Petunia-reinforced standards. Getting so lost in my thoughts last night, I had forgotten to ask Romilda why she was staying over. It seemed James had asked her to while I was minding my bandages before dinner last night – she was tasked with sitting Glory while James and I went on our morning errand.

We were going to Ollivander's.

It made so much sense that of course it escaped my notice completely – James was overprotective enough that he wouldn't allow me to go without a wand for long. And we were to arrive as soon as he opened due to James' aversion to crowds. Thinking back to the stories Hagrid and Sirius would tell me about my father, it's hard to see how the confident, somewhat arrogant young man he was would become so... different. He is a good parent, any idiot could see that, but he's almost turned within himself. Diminished.

Then again, I think about my small breakdown at the thought of Lily Potter and I can understand it a little better. The numbness I've felt since arriving in this world, since my _death_ is going away. If I'm really honest with myself, I've been paying attention without really seeing the world around me. That has to change.

Diagon Alley is much as I remember it, though it's mostly deserted right now. Shopkeepers are outside cleaning windows and arranging displays for the day ahead, but James has no interest in their wares right now... I can already see the Wand Shop.

Ollivander's is bright and inviting, and like my first trip when I was eleven I could feel a weight in the air here, a comfortable warmth like a shawl across my shoulders. Seeing a small stack of boxes on display, I move closer to their table. I reach out, not quite touching them, trying to decipher what it is I'm feeling. It's almost like moving my hand through water, the thickness of air above them. Their untapped power.

I could hear them singing in tiny voices...

"Master and Mr. Potter." Mr. Ollivander's voice snaps me out of my trance, and I stumble backwards right into James, "Are you alright, son?"

I shake the cobwebs out of my head as James steadies me, saying something I can't quite hear. When look up, I notice Mr. Ollivander is standing right in front of me, his pale, crystalline eyes full of wonder, "What did you see?"

"What?"

"This table, Mr. Potter. What did you see?"

"Harry, are you-"

"I didn't see anything," I muttered, finding my voice suddenly thick, "I felt something."

Mr. Ollivander reached out and gently grabbed my healing hand, studying the new skin for a moment before speaking again, "I take it your first wand is no longer with us?"

"No, sir." I said, flexing my fingers as he turned back to the table, "It exploded in my hand yesterday."

"Of course it did, Mr. Potter." He said as he plucked up the top two boxes from the pile, "Hawthorne and Dragon Heartstring, nine inches and rigid. Far too rigid for you now. No room to grow."

He pressed an ebony box to my forehead for a second before casually tossing it aside, "Ukrainian Iron Belly. Dependable, but no longer suited for you."

Another box, this time a reddish wood I didn't recognize got a reaction from the older man, and he opened it to reveal a brown wand with dark veins, rose petals carved into the handle "Rosewood and Unicorn Hair, ten inches. Give it a wave, Mr. Potter."

I did as I was told, and it felt like a dead stick in my hands. Almost immediately, Mr. Ollivander snatched it away and opened another box, "Teak and Dragon Heartstring, Hungarian Horntail this time."

I hadn't but touched it when he pulled the box away, this time pulling another two boxes from beneath the table. The first was a thirteen-inch Maple wand that leaped out of my reach of it's own accord before James had to wrangle it into it's proper box. The second...

"Holly and Phoenix Feather, eleven inches and supple."

I saw my wand looking back at me. And it _was _looking. I felt it call to me the moment I walked in the shop. It was _mine..._

I reached down and pulled the wand free of it's box. No sooner had I wrapped my fingers around it, my vision dimmed and I felt light-headed. Giddy, almost. A giggle escaped my mouth as I waved the wand in the air and a massive gout of red and gold flames burst from the tip. The table in front of me was instantly incinerated in the blast, and the flames started twisting of their own accord. A could see a swarm of birds inside the fire, beckoning me to release them. I knew the incantation... I had even seen it performed a few days ago...

"_Fiend-"_

Suddenly I was flying through the air, arcing backwards right into James' waiting arms. My vision clear again, I tried to stand up but felt my knees buckle. I clung miserably to James as my wand flew across the store and into Mr. Ollivander's free hand. He returned his own wand to his sleeve and shook the soot off the front of his jacket, "That was curious."

"Curious!" James shouted incredulously, "What the bloody hell just happened to my son?"

"Something rare, but not unheard of I assure you." the old man straightened his collar and returned my wand to it's box, "It happened to me when I was your son's age. He requires a... different touch than I would normally serve."

"What does that even mean?" I coughed, slowly feeling my strength returning, "That was the one! That was-"

"It is, Mr. Potter. Or at least it will be." Mr. Ollivander waved his right hand over the charred floor and ruined table, restoring it to it's previous luster, "Your wand is a perfect match for you, so perfect that when you wield it there is no longer a filter between you and your magic."

I thought about that for a moment, "But isn't that a good thing?"

"Only if you have perfect control over your magic, Mr. Potter." Mr. Ollivander chuckled, "Most adults never reach that point, but their wands always provide something of a buffer for the inner maelstrom. Without that, instead of you controlling your magic, your magic controls _you._"

I still feel the fire in my hands, the murderous flock that nearly made me... I almost cast Fiendfyre!

Ollivander must have seen the blood drain from my face because he walked over and put a hand on my shoulder, "Don't worry, Mr. Potter. We weren't in any danger beyond the superficial damage you caused to my showroom. And even that was easily remedied."

He leaned down to meet my eyes, "I had another young man like you once. Very determined, very focused. He found the perfect wand, and in his delight he blew a hole in my roof. His mother was mortified, obviously, but I let that young man keep his wand because he demonstrated incredible control over his power."

"Will you do that with me?"

The old man tilted his head, looking thoughtful, "I don't think so. You have that young man's power, but none of his control. We will try a different tactic with you."

He turned on his heel and retrieved the box my wand rested in, "I will hold onto this for now. I will not sell it to anyone else, this I promise. I will guard it in exchange for two things, Mr. Potter."

I remembered how very _right_ having my wand in my hands, and I could feel it's gentle warmth coax me along, "Anything, sir."

Mr. Ollivander smiled at that, "First, you will need a training wand to get your magnificent strength under control. I believe Master Potter will have the perfect tool for that resting in your own home."

I glanced over at James, and he looked perplexed at first. Something must have clicked in his head, because I saw him give the old man a nod, "I understand, Mr. Ollivander."

The old man turned around and started shelving boxes that had fallen loose during my magical tantrum, and confusion dawned on me, "You said there were two things."

"Indeed I did, Mr. Potter." He said without turning around, "The second thing you will have to discover for yourself. I don't doubt you will find it before long."

* * *

It is dark in my room – Romilda had gone home for the day after a lazy afternoon cavorting with me and Glory. James and Sirius held a hushed discussion in his study that ran so long I ended up having to feed my sister and guest. The look on James' face when he noticed I hadn't burned the house down was priceless, though. After Glory had been put to bed and I escorted Romilda to the Knight Bus, James sat me down in the den, a long, thin box in his hands.

"I think this is what Mr. Ollivander wanted me to give you, Harry." James looked torn as he opened it, "I haven't looked at this wand in almost ten years... maybe it was meant to be yours."

He handed the box to me and looked away, "You are too young to remember your Granddad, Harry. He was a complex man... nearly 60 years old when I was born. He had been through a lot in his life. Hell, his dedication to building this family up is what lets us live so comfortably now."

Ebony and Powdered Nundu Claw, thirteen inches and slick... my grandfather's wand. I gave it a wave and a stream of silver sparks issued from the end. It didn't sing to me, not like the one meant for me, but I felt a gentle... purring as it sat in my hands.

"This wand is more than a hundred years old. I think he would have been happy that another Potter was able to use it."

My room is dark, and I hold my new wand at arm's length trying to focus on it in the dim moonlight. Charlus Potter defended his country, his home from Gellart Grindelwald with this wand. He used it to build the Potter Fortune I realized my family lives on, and he died with it in his hands.

"_Expecto Patronum."_

My room fills with unearthly light as the silver mist that issued from my wand materializes into a beast, a giant spotted cat with a lean body and foggy breath. The creature looks at me, sizing me up before it bows it's massive head and curls up on the floor next to my bed. A predator, a beast protecting it's home... and so am I.

This is my family's home. I have a piece of my family's legacy in my hands.

Charlus Potter rebuilt the House of Potter from it's razed foundations. I can put the pieces of my family back together. I have a life again.

And I _will_ protect it.


	5. Ticket To Ride

******(A/N: Postings will be, with luck, biweekly from now on. I look forward to hearing your thoughts!)**

* * *

_**Chapter V... Ticket To Ride**_

* * *

James Potter has a morning ritual – he rises at 6:50 every morning and brews a dark, strong tea whose scent rouses me from my own slumber. After the two of us each drink a cup of that bitter brew, he goes for a morning run. I should amend that... _we _go for a morning run. It's my fault, really, though it explains why this body is in such fantastic shape. Godric's Hollow is a small enough village that it's a simple enough thing to run the length and breadth of it, and when I mentioned this to James one morning over tea a mischievous gleam came over his eyes and he asked me to prove it.

I am a stupid, stupid person. It's a small consolation that the first time James and I made the rounds he was just as flushed and out of breath as I was.

Of course, we didn't just stop at one time.

I really don't speak to James much, and I'm fortunate that the Other Harry must not have been much of a talker because nobody finds this odd. But simply being around James is enough for him, his chants of motivation during our mornings out are rather nice. The smile he wears when we get back to the cottage lights up his face... I don't think he's smiled much in a long time.

By the time we return, either Romilda or Sirius is waiting for us. If it's Romilda, then she has already roused my sister and is at work setting the table for breakfast. If it's Sirius, then he has already started eating something from a bag of take-away. Walking in on my Godfather mid-bite of a muffin is something so familiar that it hurts and amuses at the same time. At least he is considerate enough to have bought food for the lot of us. By that time, of course, I usually rush upstairs to shower upon realizing that Romilda is staring at me with undisguised appreciation and a satisfied grin on her face.

Sirius finds this _hilarious_.

Romilda is at my home most days, and she stays the night at least once a week. Like James she is bright-eyed and chipper in the mornings, when it's usually sometime between tea and the end of my run that I myself am completely awake. Glory is downstairs by the time I'm done showering, and our motley group sit down to eat. Like a family.

_My_ family.

After Lily Potter died, Sirius and Pettigrew stepped in to support their brother in all but blood. Like my father, Sirius manages his family's estate and doesn't have a real job, so-to-speak. From what I've been able to gather in passing, his brother Regulus is still alive and actually lives in Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

I remember how my Sirius hated the gloomy old house, and think that perhaps it's better this way.

Pettigrew's work at the Ministry takes up most of his day, but he joins for supper every chance he gets. Glory adores the big man, and like myself he regresses in age a bit as he cheerfully tosses her into the air or plays tag with her through the house. He is _so _changed that it's hard to imagine that it's the same person in my memories. Peter Pettigrew... not Wormtail. Of everything in this world that is different, he has perhaps taken the longest to adjust to... the tingle across my back from simply being in the same room as him finally diminished the week before school started.

Remus Lupin is missing.

* * *

It was late when I heard the creak of my bedroom door opening. I wasn't quite asleep yet, but I kept my eyes closed and just listened to the light steps of someone approaching my bed.

"Harry."

_Yes, Harry Potter._

As clear as day, a memory flashed before my eyes. I was cold, despite the layers of blankets she had packed for us and a hastily applied Warming Charm that had faded sometime in the night. I hear a whisper, and almost unconsciously I open the blankets to allow Hermione entry. She snuggles up against me, more for warmth then anything overtly romantic, and in my arms I can feel how thin she's gotten in the past few weeks...

"Harry."

I open my eyes, and a very different girl is in my bed right now. With a lazy smile, I raised a hand to brush dark curls away from her face, "Romilda, what are you doing here?"

It's hard to discern with the moon as my only source of light, but I think she is blushing as she leans into my touch, "I wanted to... I don't know."

Her blush is a far cry from Hermione's tear-streaked face, something that was common to both of us during that dark, frigid winter in the Forest of Dean. Whereas then I could feel every shift of position in the night, every quiet sob, here I don't feel quite... myself. I'm between here and then. Between sleep and the waking world, it is just the two of us.

"I was dreaming." She whispered, her eyes half-lidded in concentration, "I saw things, I think. Horrible things."

I didn't realize I still had my hand entwined in her hair, but the feeling of her curls between my fingers soothed me so I left it there, "What did you see?"

_What do you see, Harry Potter?_

I see my best friend shivering in my arms, crying out of desperation, out of frustration. I hold her close to me and whisper my thoughts to her as they come to me, telling her that she isn't alone, that we can do this, knowing that what I'm saying might not be true. I run my fingers through her hair to calm her sobbing, and she clings to me beneath the covers... two lost souls adrift in an unforgiving ocean.

"Our friends! Something was killing them, the castle! There was so much blood..." Romilda is shaking in my arms and I pull her closer, letting her cry into my chest. She is more substantial than Hermione was, but in this moment she feels just as fragile. My mouth is dry and I think of the bodies, of Lavender Brown moaning piteously after being attacked by Fenrir Greyback, of Colin Creevey laying crumpled and frail against a stone wall.

_Better now..._

_Better, yes?_

_Alive, Harry Potter._

_They are alive._

Deep inside, I feel something _click..._ and at once I'm myself again. I'm in a bed, _my_ bed. I'm in my room.

Romilda Vane is crying in my arms.

"Shh..." I pull my hand out of her hair and gently raise her face to mine, "It was a bad dream, it was only a dream."

"Really?" Romilda's eyes shined with unshed tears, and I realized that she wasn't herself yet. I couldn't just push her out of bed and send her back to her room, not in this state.

"Really." I sighed, and I leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead.

Almost at once her quivering ceased and I could feel her breathing steady as she relaxed into my embrace. Romilda nestled up against me, soft and inviting as her body started to warm again, "Okay... okay."

I looked down at the girl whose deepening breaths tickled my neck, "Go to sleep."

She mumbled something that I decided to take as a positive answer and I settled back into my pillow, my cheeks resting against tousled curls. I wasn't certain what had just happened, my own memory as hazy as dreams always are. But she saw Hogwarts... she remembered Hogwarts.

_My _Hogwarts. How did she do that?

Romilda Vane is my best friend. But she wasn't always...

Hermione and Romilda.

They are the key.

* * *

The next morning, when I woke, Romilda was gone.

* * *

King's Cross is busy, the sounds of blurry, half-understood conversations and the occasional _pop_ of apparition as familiar as home. I couldn't hide my excitement at going back to Hogwarts, though I noticed James growing a little sadder as September drew nearer. I tried to pep him up during our morning excursions (and indeed they had become excursions, with James throwing in Calisthenics one day on a whim), but he gave me the same sad smile that I remembered my Sirius having over the holidays my fifth year. Unlike Sirius, however, James wouldn't be alone.

"Are you all set?" James asked as he fussed with my robe, "You didn't leave anything at the house, did you?"

"No, I think I'm alright." I couldn't hide my smile at this, feeling a small thrill at James treating me like a much younger child. If I was actually my age, I imagine I would be horribly embarrassed, but I didn't mind the attention.

It was like having a father.

"Come on, Harry!" Romilda was pulling a floating trunk behind her, "We need to grab a seat before they're all taken!"

She hadn't said anything about that night... I had actually found her in her own room the next morning, wrapped up in that emerald green quilt and clinging to a pillow in very much the same way she was clinging to me a few hours before. Somehow, I don't think she remembered it. My own memory of that night was fuzzy at best, but I knew that it happened. A few hours later she was up and happy and making cheeky comments like normal.

"You had best not keep a lady waiting," James said with a grin very much like he had in my old photo albums. When he was _happy_.

I don't know what possessed me to do it, but seeing him grin like that, looking so much like my father... I went up and gave him a hug. He froze for a moment, but soon wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me hard.

"You've grown up so much, Harry" He whispered, "Your mum would be proud of you."

"She would want you to be happy too, you know?"

James looked me in the eye, as if searching for something. Eventually, his hazel eyes softened a bit and he gave me a weak smile, "I know, son. Give me time."

He leaned over and kissed me on the top of my head, "Off you go now... don't forget to write!"

Romilda walked alongside me as we pushed our way through the crowd, the clasp of her trunk rattling over the din, "You're different."

I tried not to show my surprise at her words, "Oh?"

Of course she would notice something... as close as she is to me, she was probably the first one to know something was different.

Different.

"You're... bigger, if that makes any sense." She paused a moment to gather her thoughts, "And louder."

"Louder? How am I louder?"

"When you play with Glory! You never used to play with her like Uncle Peter does. She never made you laugh like that before."

She turned around mid-step on the rail stairs, leaning down to meet my eyes with pout on her face, "I used to be the only one to make you laugh."

I couldn't help but smile at that, "Jealous?"

Romilda rolled her eyes as she turned back to walk onto the train, "Prat."

She couldn't hide her grin, though.

The Hogwarts Express was just as I remembered it... a bustle of activity. I could smell a hint of sulfur in the air, likely from an Exploding Snap game gone wrong. Passing through the open-air cars, I saw a few familiar faces... Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones were huddled together in a seat reading a copy of The Daily Prophet. As Hannah caught sight of me, though, she pulled the magazine closer to her face to avoid my gaze.

Odd.

Looking around, I noticed quite a few people reacting to my presence. Ernie Macmillan gave me an ugly scowl before turning his back to me, as did Terry Boot, and a few girls in Ravenclaw robes actually closed the door to their compartment on us and drew the blinds.

"Bloody fools!" Romilda whispered under her breath as she tried to open the door to no avail, "Well, it looks like we'll be in the back again."

The very last compartment in the very last car... some things never change.

I loaded both our trunks up top, giving them a tug to make sure the sticking charms were working properly and took a seat next to Romilda. Ron hadn't met us on the platform, which likely meant that the Weasley family was running behind again.

Some things never change.

"It's okay, you know?"

"Hmm?" I looked at Romilda, and I hadn't noticed that her eyes were actually a pale brown, and not amber like I originally surmised.

"That you're different." She gave me a toothy smile and gently squeezed my arm, "It just gives me a reason to figure out why."

The compartment door slammed open, and Ron walked in, "Here you two are! I thought we were going to meet out on the platform?"

Ron looked just as disheveled as the day of my birthday, and he had an odd smirk on his face that looked completely alien in my memories of him. It looked almost... predatory.

"We were on the platform, Ronald. Mr. Potter waited as long as he could for you before sending us aboard." Romilda's lips thinned considerably as Ron just gave her a goofy smirk in return.

"S'alright, I suppose." He said as he loaded his trunk above his own seat, "I still had a bit of fun waiting for you."

He pulled something long and blue from his pocket, a necklace made up of dozens of tiny blue shells with a thick cork at the end of it, "Look at what I found."

It takes me a moment to recognize it, and I instantly tense when I do, "Where did you get that?"

"I found it, out there on the platform." He said, looking very much like the cat who swallowed the canary, "No one's going to miss it."

The butterbeer cork swaying at the end of the chain brings a flood of memories to the forefront of my mind, memories of a dungeon, of house elves, of a barefoot blonde girl posting flyers...

I snatch it out of Ron's hand before he can stash it in his pockets again, and he sputters as I inspect it, "Oi! Give that back, it's mine!"

Before I can blink, he pushes me down, forcibly trying to take it back from me. Romilda gives an indignant squeal she is forced off the bench we were sharing, and in a blink she is back on her feet and pulling at his hands "Get off of him, Ronald!"

I briefly remember one of the few times when Dudley and his friends would manage to catch me when I was a kid, how they would smother me with their weight and pry at one of the few possessions I had, something they didn't really want but wanted anyway just because I had it. The compartment is too small for this kind wrestling, and I feel someone's elbow clip me on the side of my head when I decide I've had enough.

Ron Weasley is taller than I am, and in my old life he was bigger than I was too. But that Ron Weasley was never, _ever_ a bully.

I _hate_ bullies.

I get both hands underneath him and shove with all my strength, and the look in his eye tells me that he never expected Harry Potter to actually fight back.

I'm different.

Ron is actually pushed upright for a moment before losing his balance and awkwardly falling sideways back into his seat, his blue eyes wide with shock, "What the bloody hell has gotten into you?"

"Me? What the bloody _fuck _is wrong with you? Do you think I don't know where you got this?" I scream, waving the blue necklace in front of his face. The look in his eyes tells me that he wouldn't dare to take it back now.

Bullies never do.

Romilda has the same look of shock on her face as Ron, though I imagine it's for a wholly separate reason. I glance down at the necklace swaying in my hands and make a decision.

"I'll be back in a minute."

* * *

It takes me a few minutes to get my bearings again. I think about trying to exercise the little occlumency I do know, but decide against it... the adrenaline is already winding down and I feel a bit shaky as I stalk down the corridor. I didn't really have a plan for Hogwarts beyond 'fitting in', but in the compartment just now I know that I just shifted the whole dynamic between my friends.

Not even 'friends', now. After that, I might just be down to one.

What was Ron's problem? Is this what James was talking to Audrey Collins about, why Sirius and even Glory seemed to hate him? How could I really be friends with someone who ran roughshod over me like that...

At least that explains why Romilda is much closer to me than Ron. If she's even friends with Ron at all.

Every time I think things are going to become easier, something else always happens...

_Your reward._

I should really look for Luna.

After my confrontation with Ron, I didn't feel up to finding Ginny... or any of the other Weasleys really. After a half-hour of scouring the train and enduring more unpleasant looks, though, I realized that I didn't really have a clue where to actually find Luna Lovegood.

So I shouldn't really be surprised when instead, she finds me.

"Hello, Harry Potter."

I'm in the Luggage Car when I see Luna Lovegood for the first time. She is... tiny, nearly a head shorter than I am, with protuberant gray eyes. In my old life, I didn't meet her till my fifth year, so I suppose she hasn't hit her growth spurt yet. Her hair is the widest part of her, dirty blonde and scraggly all the way to her waist. She looks very much like a wildflower, and I'm surprised that I never really noticed how lovely she was before now.

"Hi, Luna."

If at all possible, her eyes widen more then they already are, "Oh? You know me?"

Not yet.

_You will_.

"Well, you know my name."

She ponders this a moment before answering, "It seems I do. How very odd."

I hold my hand out, the butterbeer cork necklace still safely within my grasp, "And I know that this is yours."

She studies me, those wide eyes seeming to swallow every detail. Eventually, she turns her gaze down and sees the necklace there. Quietly, she reaches a small hand out and I carefully let it drape around her fingers, "You are different, Harry."

"So I've been told," I said, my lips curling into a smile at this simple conversation.

Luna walks right up to me, tilting her head up to meet my eyes and gives me a shy smile of her own. She reaches for my hand and places the necklace back into it before turning around, "I'd like a favor from you."

"And what is that?"

She raises both hands up and pulls her hair aside, exposing the pale skin of her nape, "Will you put it on for me?"

For the first time I'm a little nervous as I walk forward, necklace in hand. I reach around the small girl and let the cork fall onto her chest, the motion of pulling the shells across her delicate skin prickling it into gooseflesh. Her breathing is shallow and quick, and as I fasten the clasp I exhale a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding. She lets her hair drop, sheets of it falling across her shoulders and down her back, and she leans against me for a second, fitting neatly beneath my chin.

"Do you know why I did that, Harry? Why I'm feeling like this?"

Somehow, someway, I feel more relaxed now then at any point in the summer.

Except for that night.

"I'm not sure."

"I don't know you, we've never talked before today, and Ronald seems to think it funny to take my things. By all rights, I shouldn't want to be in the same room as you."

Luna sighs and turns to face me again, though this time her face is flushed, "But I trust you. For some reason I feel in my bones, I trust you."

She grabs my hands, reaches up, and kisses me on the chin, "Bye, Harry."

* * *

I'm walking back to my compartment in a daze, trying to piece together what is going on. This was... something strange.

Different.

_Different, Harry Potter._

Luna didn't leave me without a parting gift either – when I looked down at my hands, I saw a silver chain in it, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows dangling from the end.

_With you, Harry Potter._

_The Master of Death._

_Forever._

I'm not paying attention when I walk right into somebody, and I tumble head over feet to the ground, my glasses flying off my head.

"Shit!" I mutter, hoping that no one around me heard that. I comb the ground blindly for my glasses, feeling the texture of paper and books among other things beneath my fingers, "I'm so sorry about that. If I can just-"

I feel my glasses shoved roughly into my hands, and I fumble with them a moment before putting them on and getting a good look at the person I accidentally assaulted.

My heart stops.

Dark brown eyes are staring at me in sheer horror from behind a mane of bushy hair, and I sink to my knees before I can stop myself.

Hermione...


	6. I'm Looking Through You

_**Chapter VI... I'm Looking Through You**_

* * *

I'm not panicking.

I'm not.

There have been several times in my life where I feel as though I'm not the one living it, that someone else takes stead and goes off without me. When Bellatrix Lestrange murdered my godfather, something inside me simmering just beneath the surface burst free. I don't remember Remus holding me back, tearing my way out of his arms, and racing down inky corridors after the woman, the _creature_ that took Sirius from me. I do, however, remember the righteous fury fueling my power the first time I ever cast an Unforgivable. The act itself is what brought me back to the present... and once I had grip of myself again the curse sparked and sputtered, finally failing when the rage left me. When Voldemort materialized before us, I couldn't even defend myself against him. I felt hollow...

… just like I do now.

Hermione Granger was my best friend, my closest confidant, and oddly enough my one real link to the Muggle world. I may have spent my summers with my relatives, but I never truly considered that place to be my home. Hogwarts was my home, and magic was the very thing that saved me from the miserable existence I was going to have with the Dursleys. Hermione had an enthusiasm for the Magical World that exceeded my own, and her every spare moment was spent devouring book after book. She wanted to know everything there was to know, and there was so little time to learn it! As much as the act of performing magic came to symbolize my new life to me, deciphering the mechanics of such a nebulous thing was her true sanctuary. Even when we were on our hunt for Voldemort's lethal trinkets, she poured over Secrets of the Darkest Art no matter how ill it made her. Looking at her then, I wondered what would have become of her had Ron and I not come along? Would this have been her life? No friends, no one to relate to... how could someone even exist living like that?

Looking at the terrified girl before me, I think I have my answer.

I could easily recognize a polyjuiced Hermione Granger underneath the withered body of Bellatrix in my old life, and like so I recognize her now. Her hair is bushy and unkempt, more so than I remembered, and her eyes are unchanged save for the fear I see in them now. Everything else...

My Hermione was never a slender girl and of the three of us she was certainly the least fit, but the girl I see before me is more than two stone heavier, her face softer and less defined than the friend I left behind. The girl is wearing a plain blouse that fits her a bit too tightly, and a pleated skirt that matches our normal school uniform. I hate to admit it, but she looks _frumpy_, as though she doesn't take care of herself. Her bottom lip is quivering, and I'm suddenly reminded of a first-year Neville Longbottom, beaten down by his over-bearing Grandmother and written off by the whole of the school. She looks... uncomfortable in her own skin, so much so that I'm feeling disturbed just being in her presence.

I gather the materials strewn about the ground and offer them to her, "I'm sorry about that, Hermione."

"Th-thank you." She says quietly, shuffling the books into a wide, leather bag. Before she can say anything else, I slip past her and out of the corridor.

I return to my compartment to find Romilda asleep on one of the benches, curled up like an enormous cat, and Ron nowhere to be found. The sound of the sliding door woke her, and she greeted me with a lazy smile, "Hullo, Harry."

With a sigh I let myself be pulled down onto her seat, and we spent the rest of the train ride in silence, my fingers entwined in her hair as she dozed on my shoulder.

* * *

Hogwarts is unchanged, and that is a small comfort to me. The castle stands tall and proud, almost a mirror of the first time I laid eyes upon it in my first year. It seems so long ago now, and I find it hard to believe that, once upon a time, I didn't know Magic existed. As we pass through the old, iron gates, I feel something... warm spreading over me. It reminds me of the feeling I had when I set foot inside of Ollivander's shop, where I could _see _traces of the inherent magic in the wands. This feeling is different, though. It is a light pressure, a gentle embrace from a loved one, the warmth of a blanket around my shoulders on a cold day. I smile when I recognize the feeling.

I'm home.

On our way here, I noticed another odd thing that seems to have carried over from my old world – I can still see the Thestrals. I didn't want to alert Romilda that anything was amiss, though, so I didn't say a word. Still, seeing the odd, skeletal creatures prance about and snort when Hagrid loosed them from their reins brings a grin to my face.

The Great Hall... seeing it again in it's full glory, the hundreds of ethereal candles floating in the air, it's almost unreal. The pain I expected to feel upon seeing it simply isn't there. Nor is there anything but surprise in seeing all the familiar faces finding their seats at the House Tables, all of them eager for the feast. Fred and George Weasley are huddled next to Ron, whispering conspiratorially as they sneak glances at their grumpy sibling. Among the Slytherins, I do have to swallow a bit of disdain at seeing Draco Malfoy smirking at something Pansy Parkinson says, and I remind myself that he has no idea what his counterpart has done to me. Shaking my head at those rogue thoughts, I turn my attentions to the Head Table. Headmaster Dumbledore sits front and center in blue, star-spangled robes, a silver tassel hanging off the top of his pointed hat. He is wonderfully, miraculously alive, and I wipe a stray tear from my cheek at the sight of him. Even from my fairly distant vantage point at the far end of the Gryffindor table, I can detect traces of auburn in his beard and hair... he looks at least a decade younger than the Dumbledore of my world. As I scan the Head Table, I notice that he isn't the only one with this curious affliction – Professor McGonagall's face is smoother, and her hair is a salt-and-pepper mix instead of the steely gray I remembered. Even tiny Professor Flitwick seems more jovial than usual as he chats with a handsome, dark-haired man I don't immediately recognize.

At the end of the table is Severus Snape... at odds with the rest of the table, his change is not for the better. He is thinner than I remember him being, his face drawn and hollow as he glares malevolently at the approaching First Years being led in by Hagrid. His skin is pale bordering on sickly, and I catch a glimpse of sunken coal-black eyes before turning away. It's just as well – I don't really want to test my fledgling Occlumency against a someone like Snape.

"Is everything alright?" Romilda whispers, snapping me out of my reverie. I meet her eyes when she gently elbows me in the arm, "You look like you were a million miles away just now."

"Sorry about that."

She smiles at me, placing a hand between my shoulders "Don't think about Ronald right now. It's a feast, Harry! We should be happy."

I breathe a sigh of relief at her words... I doubt the Other Harry ever stood up for himself, if Ron was any indication, "You know what, you're right. Let's see where the firsties end up this year."

She visibly preens at my words, and after a moment she leans in close, her lips brushing against my ear as she speaks, "I'm so proud of you."

As the First Years lined up on the other side of the Great Hall, the dark-haired professor I didn't recognize rises from his seat with the Sorting Hat in his hands. He is tall, perhaps taller even than Professor Snape, and his hair is combed back with the faintest hint of gray along his sideburns. He has high cheekbones and a healthy pallor, and when he smiles at the first child in the line I see something in his face that seems nearly... familiar.

The first child sorted is girl with sandy-brown hair and delicate features, and the Hat sits quietly on her head for a moment before belting out "SLYTHERIN" across the hall. Everyone at their table gives a cheer, and the dark-haired Professor kneels down and pats her head before sending her off to meet her housemates. When the next child is sorted with a hearty "GRYFFINDOR", he turns to look at our table... and I see his eyes reflect redly in the candlelight, like maroon pinpricks scanning across us all.

His eyes.

His _red_ eyes.

It... it's impossible. My eyes never leave the professor, even after the Sorting is over. He is gentle-faced and personable, handsome and unassuming... the only person who really pays him no mind is Snape.

It could easily be a coincidence. Magic is responsible for all sorts of normally impossible eye colors, like Cho Chang's sparkling violet or Luna Lovegood's silvery gray. Even eyes the same color green as mine are hard to come by in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. But red... no one outside of Voldemort has ever had them.

I try to eat, I really do, but my stomach is threatening to revolt. I know Romilda is doing her best to encourage me to eat, but I only have one thing on mind. I _have_ to know! The moment the feast is over, I tell Romilda that I'll meet her in the Common Room later and run as quickly as I can to the Library. I suppose it's a testament to my morning routines with James that I'm not even winded when I reach it. I pay Madam Pince no mind as I head straight for a shelf I remember fondly from my old life. I have never read the book myself, but I fetched it for Hermione enough times to know it's location by heart.

Hogwarts, A History.

I pull the thick volume from it's cozy home and sit down at the nearest table. I flip through page after page until I finally find what it is I'm looking for, and my stomach sinks when I read it.

Black and white, plain as day.

_**Hogwarts Head Of House ~ Slytherin**_

_**Defence Against the Dark Arts Professorship**_

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

* * *

How could I have been so wrong?

Romilda.

Hermione.

The point upon which this new world is balanced has nothing to do with them.

I reached my limit after an hour in the library. If I pushed myself, I probably could have stayed and studied longer, I could have dug into the archives of _The Daily Prophet_ that are available, but I didn't really want to fight Madam Pince about being out after curfew on my first night here.

That's a poor excuse... I just really did not want to see the scope of how the world has changed. It was selfish of me to think that only my home life, only my friends had changed when I skipped across into this world. Something happened, something so small in the scale of things that it went beyond notice in the world at large, but there were ripples.

James Potter is alive.

Lily Potter is not.

Glory Potter was born.

Romilda Vane is my best friend.

Ron Weasley is a cowardly bully.

Hermione Granger is sad and alone.

Harry Potter... the Harry Potter I replaced like a thief in the night. Quiet and timid, haunted by his mother's death and so lonely that when he met Ron Weasley, he clung to him no matter how badly he was treated. I suppose I'm not so different, in the end.

There is no Lord Voldemort.

There are no Death Eaters. I couldn't find a single word about attacks... no strange disappearances. There was no war... and not a breath about a Dark Lord. Tom Marvolo Riddle was appointed to the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts close to 20 years ago, gaining a recommendation from Professor McGonagall of all people. They were schoolmates, based on what I've read...

The corridors are blissfully empty. I let me feet guide me towards the Common Room as I try and digest everything I've discovered. Tom Riddle is alive and whole. The man I saw greeting the new students, the man who was effectively welcoming a new generation of students to the Wizarding World, was wholly and completely human. I wish I knew _how_ I was certain of that. There were all sorts of ways Wizards could disguise themselves. Horace Slughorn was capable of transforming himself into _Furniture_, let alone what Polyjuice Potion could accomplish. Despite all the ways someone could hide their inhumanity, I knew in my heart that Tom Riddle wasn't using any of them.

I just wish I knew why.

Ripples.

The Fat Lady is asleep when I get to the entrance of the Gryffindor Common Room, and I sigh when I see Romilda on the floor next to her. The girl is asleep with her knees pulled tight against her chest, her curls dancing a bit with every breath she takes. I kneel down and give her a gentle shake.

"Huh?" She says, stretching her legs out on the stone floor, "Where have you been?"

"The library... I had a few things I needed to work out."

"Oh. You could have taken me, you know." Romilda held out a hand expectantly, "You left before McGonagall gave us the password."

So that explained why she was waiting for me... a small pang of guilt flowered as I helped Romilda to her feet, "I'm sorry."

"Hey! None of that now." She said, giving me a wide grin, "It's been a long day."

_Friends..._

_She loves you so, Harry Potter._

_Best friends..._

_What will you do now?_

Romilda turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady, tapping the frame to wake the ill-tempered construct, "Can you let us in, please?"

The Fat Lady grumbled a bit as she removed a velvet sleep mask from her eyes, "Password?"

"Skipping Stones."

The painting swings open to allow us entry, and I notice the Romilda hasn't removed her hand from my grasp when she pulls me inside. I decide to let her indulge... there are so many things on my mind, so much left I have to find out.

It can wait. For now, at least until I can let this vast new reality really sink in.

Tomorrow is a brand new day, after all.

* * *

**_(Author's Note:__ It's taken me two years to get here, but this is it... Act One of Skipping Stones is finished! It's a shorter chapter than I would have normally like to have posted, but it's an ideal stopping point. Also, the next chapter will be ahead of schedule, given that I'm already halfway done with it. In the end, I believe this story will be about 25 chapters long, covering all of Harry's 4th year. Again, I thank everyone for sticking with me and I hope new readers will find something of worth in what I write.)_**


End file.
